Jordan’s company. David was a freelance commercial artist, working at that time on an advertising campaign for Tryle Transmissions. She had known immediately that she attracted him, but whether that was because she was the boss’s girl-friend or not, she could never be sure. What had always been apparent was that any girl who could hold a man like Jordan had to have something, and several of his friends had made passes at her when they thought Jordan wasn’t looking.
Emma had quite liked David, although she had sensed his feelings towards Jordan contained quite an element of envy. He had always had an intense ambition to be wealthy, and having money meant a lot to him.
From the minute he learned that Emma was back in Abingford to stay, he had started dating her, and within a very short time he asked her to marry him. Emma had demurred, insisting that they hardly knew one another, secretly wondering whether Jordan might ring her once he knew she was home again. She knew he was still unmarried, unattached, if what the papers said was true, and she cherished hopes that perhaps time would have worked its miracle for him, too.
But as the weeks and months went by, and there was no word from Jordan, she was forced to accept that so far as he was concerned, their affair was over. Her mother, guessing her feelings, had ridiculed such foolishness. David, she said, was a far better candidate than Jordan Kyle could ever be, and besides, she wanted Emma to have nothing more to do with that family.
The crunch came the night Emma casually encountered Jordan at the charity ball. He had spoken to her politely, but that was all. His eyes had looked straight through her and she had known that whatever there had been between them was dead—and buried. That was the night she had accepted David’s proposal, and lived to regret it. His accident, just four days before the date of the wedding, had destroyed any idea she might have had for cancelling the ceremony. Instead, it had been conducted around his bed in the hospital, the only thing, they said, that would give him a reason for living. A reason for living …
Emma pressed her lips together tightly now. That was ironic. From the moment David learned that he was paralysed from the waist down, he had despised the life he was forced to live, and gradually he was forcing Emma to despise her life, too. It was as if there was a malignant cancer growing inside him that was gradually corrupting his soul, and Emma seldom looked into the future without a sense of despair.
If only David had accepted his disability. If only he could appreciate how good it was to be alive, instead of persistently bemoaning his lot in life, and allowing the envy he had always possessed to poison and destroy what little happiness they might have had.
‘Emma!’ She heard him calling her now, the irritability evident in his voice. ‘Emma, what in God’s name are you doing? Does it take half an hour to make a cup of coffee?’
‘Coffee!’ Emma started guiltily. She had forgotten to turn on the percolator.
‘I won’t be long,’ she called in reply. ‘I’m just finishing the dishes!’ and as if to emphasise this point she clattered plates and dishes on to the draining board.
But later that night, lying in the lonely isolation of her bed, she gave in to the frustrated tears that stung the backs of her eyes. She and David didn’t even share a bedroom, he having decided he needed the double bed they had once intended to use for his own use downstairs, while she occupied the single divan in the bedroom upstairs. How could she suggest going to the West Indies? she thought helplessly. Apart from anything else, it was unfair to David to even think of such a thing when he was stuck here at home, hating the cold weather. There had never been money for expensive holidays. Even the accident insurance had been denied to them on a technicality, which Emma had never understood, and without her job in those early days they would have had to have applied for social security.
Besides, what could Andrew Kyle have to say to her that was so desperately important that he should send for her practically on his dying bed? It didn’t make sense to her, so how could David be expected to understand, let alone agree to the trip?
She sighed. Jordan would not be surprised if she refused. Relieved, was his more likely reaction. After all, how boring it would be for him having to escort her all that way, and embarrassing, too, if she chose to bring up the past. But she wouldn’t do that, she thought, fumbling under her pillow for a paper tissue. She had some pride! Of course, he didn’t know that, and now he would never find out.
THE attic at Mellor Terrace was dark and gloomy, the only light coming through a tiny window set up high in the roof. There was no electricity, and Emma had to use a torch to see what she was doing. It was chilly, too, but she had put on thick trousers and a chunky sweater, and the effort of her exertions was keeping the cold at bay.
Looking round the cobwebby interior of the attic, she wondered how many years it was since anyone had been up here. Mrs Ingram had shuddered at the prospect of climbing the rickety old staircase that coiled to the upper regions of the house, and she had shown little interest in Emma’s plans to clean the place out. One of her arguments for Emma giving up her job was to imply that she had not the time to keep up with her housework, but she ignored the fact that she had not entered the attic so long as Emma had known her.
David had been much less emphatic. On the contrary, he had stated that as there was never likely to be more than two of them living in the house, the three spare bedrooms provided more than enough storage space without disturbing the dust of decades that filmed everything in the attic. He had got quite annoyed with her for bringing the matter up, and it was one of those occasions when Emma had kept her own counsel.
But since then she had had private thoughts about it, and this morning she had needed something energetic to do, something to take her mind off her decision to refuse Jordan’s invitation. Cleaning out the attic had seemed an ideal occupation, and as David was busy with his drawings, she had come up here straight after breakfast.
David was right about one thing, she thought, tracing her name in the dust that thickly covered an old cedarwood ottoman. This was the dust of decades. She doubted Mrs Ingram had ever done more than check for dampness, and she began to wonder whether she might not be more sensible to let well alone. Who knew what hairy monsters might lurk among these piles of outdated magazines and discarded books, the rolls of old wallpaper and battered suitcases, filled with faded curtains and worn-out bedding? She was not normally afraid of insects, but the prospect of meeting spiders or beetles up here sent a shiver down her spine.
Then she gave herself a mental shake. She was being fanciful, she decided impatiently. The attic was just another room, after all, and cleaned out it would make a pleasant storage place for David’s old drawings. At present they littered the drawers of his study, but if she could persuade him to let her store them up here, he would have so much more room to work. Besides, it wasn’t healthy to have all this dust about the place, and it would give her a great deal of satisfaction to show Mrs Ingram what she had done.
Fortunately she had secured her hair beneath a scarf before tackling the first removals, for the dust flew freely, and she sneezed as particles invaded her nose and tickled her throat. It would be easier, she decided, to investigate the contents of suitcases and boxes up here, rather than drag them through the house, and then those that were to be discarded could all be disposed of together.
Box after box contained toys, she found, and she realised Mrs Ingram must have kept every toy David had ever had. It was a disconcerting discovery, and although she was tempted to throw the lot out, she decided to speak to her mother-in-law first. After all, they were not hers to dispose of, and if Mrs Ingram wanted to keep them, that was her prerogative.
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